Downtown Devil: Book 2 in series (Sins in the City) (19 page)

“Eager?”

“Hungry,” came his answer, the word itself low and husky, steeped in craving.

“Slow or fast?”

“Fast at first. He thinks he owes it to me, thinks that’s the way to get it done quick. But the more he gives, the more into it he gets. He goes slower, deeper. Lets himself feel it all.”

“What are his hands doing?” Her own hand was still cupping her sex through her panties, warming that already heated space.

“One on my hip,” Mica said, and swallowed. “The other wrapped around me, tight. Not stroking, not yet. He has to concentrate on his mouth at first. That’s so much, to start with.”

“It’s his first time,” she hazarded, thinking that must excite Mica. She thought right.

“Yeah.” Panting filled a brief pause. “Yeah. He’s never done that. Never wanted it before now. With me.”

“What if it were different? What if you hadn’t gone down on him first?” The fantasy was unfurling in her mind, and the words slipped out so easily—more easily than dirty talk had ever come to her before. “He’s still hard and hurting and impatient when he decides to finally do this to you.”

“Yeah.”

“And you stop him, before you come. You tell him,
Get ready. You’re finally going to fuck me tonight
.”

A thick groan came through the line. “Good.”

“He meets your eyes from where he is, on his knees, and he looks a little scared, but there’s heat there, too. Then he’s up, stripping away his shirt.”

“I’d do the same. Strip everything.”

“Let him keep his pants on,” she said. “Let him feel more in control.”

“Yeah. Let him feel that, for me as much as for him. I’d want him that way—in control.”

“What do you do? Hands and knees?”

“Knees, not hands. Not on the ground. I’d brace myself on something—a cooler or a rock, whatever. I’d need to be able to turn, to watch him.”

“Good. So you’re outside.”

“Always.”

“Campfire? A bottle of something?”

“Always a fire. And whiskey. Every time we’ve fucked around, it’s tasted like bourbon. He’s never kissed me, but if he did I know it’d sting.” Now that was some filthy poetry, right there.

“Go on.”

“The ground’s hard,” he said. “Even through the blanket, I can feel it under my knees.” He’d put some thought into this. Many, many nights’ worth of theorizing. “His hands are rough. Fresh scrapes from the day’s climbing.”

“Where do you feel them?”

“All down my back, over my hips, my thighs, my ass. I can hear him taking himself out, getting himself harder. Then he’s holding me, one hand on my shoulder as the other brings his cock to me.”

“What’s it feel like? Going there with him?”

“Dangerous. He’s big. But he’s wet, from his spit. And I’m ready.”

Her body flashed hot, and from fantasies she’d never been too drawn to before she met this man. “How is it, when he takes you? Slow and careful? Or rough?”

“The first time? Slow. Even if he was pissed at me, he’d go slow. I know that much. He’d take ages. He wouldn’t talk to me, though. He wouldn’t ask how it felt. He wouldn’t dare. But he’d take it slow, and he’d stop if I asked, or if it sounded like it was hurting me.”

He would—Clare knew that, too. Vaughn couldn’t take his anger out on a lover, she bet, not even in a sexy way, not even if they wanted it and asked for it. She couldn’t picture that anyhow.

“Would he watch?” she asked. “Would he keep his eyes open?”

Mica chuckled softly. “I’ve always wondered that. I’ve always hoped he would. I’d wait until he found a pace, until it was smooth. Then I’d turn, lock our eyes over my shoulder.”

Clare’s fingers were teasing her clit through the cotton of her panties. She abandoned the effort to switch off her light. The fantasy in her mind was as vivid as high-def, and she wanted to get lost in it. She could just about smell the fire, mingling with the scent of two men’s sweat. “What would you see there, on his face?”

“Fuck . . . So much. Fear, or disbelief, on the surface. But under that, lust. Excitement.
Relief.
”

“Relief?”

“That we finally went there. He finally gave in. Because I know
he
knows I want that. He sees it in my eyes when we’re hanging out, when we’re drinking and I can’t pretend it away like I can when I’m sober, even if nothing sexual’s happening between us. He knows I can’t help it. I want him. I always have.”

“And he wants you.”

“Sometimes. He doesn’t want to, but he does.”

“How does that make you feel?”

Another low and wicked chuckle. “Fucking good.”

“Powerful?”

“Maybe. Maybe a little evil.”

“So what comes next?”

“Very little,” he said. “When I fantasize, this is where I stay. With our eyes meeting, our bodies meeting.”

She asked and Mica answered, and this shared fantasy fell apart into a flurry of moaned and muttered scraps of phrases—
Rougher now. How’s he feel? So big. What else? His hand on my cock.
Clare beat Mica to the punch, and she bet he had no clue. His voice had become nothing but harsh pants and swears. She lay back with her lungs racing and listen to him coming apart fifteen blocks away, his mind two thousand miles across the country.

His groans raced, crescendoed, then went silent for a long beat. An exhalation, a breathless “Ah, fuck,” half lost in a laugh.

Clare laughed right back. “Success.”

“What about you?”

“Beat you to it.”

“Did you, then?” A groan like he was stretching out across his bed. She could just see it; she ached to photograph it.

“I did.”

“You think about that stuff a lot when you get off?” he asked. “Two guys?”

“Never before I met you.”

“Well, well.”

She smiled up at her ceiling, wishing he were lying beside her. She wanted his voice all around her, his smell, his heat. “You make me want stuff I never even thought about before.” Again, she wondered how far Vaughn might take things with Mica, if she asked him to. What a nice gift that would be to Mica, if she could pull it off. A
thank-you surprise, even, for all the new facets of her sexuality he’d shown her these past few weeks.

“Am I seeing you soon?” she asked. “You alone, or the both of you?”

“Up to you.”

Was it, though? She felt like a terminally loyal dog, glued in place until the exact second he called her to come. “The phone is nice, but nothing beats the real thing.”
Give me a night, a time. Don’t keep me waiting until the mood strikes you.

But all she got back was “We’ll see.”

“Tease.”

“I don’t know his schedule. I’ll ask him tonight.”

“You better. This entire call’s going to leave me itchy until we wind up in your bed again.”

“And we can’t have that.”

“No, we can’t.” It was the pushiest she’d been with Mica so far, but it felt playful—flirty, not clingy. When she hung up a minute later, she didn’t feel like a fool.

She felt a lot of things—needy and hungry and impatient beyond belief, but not foolish.

“Give him time,” she muttered to herself, and hauled her butt off the covers. “Just give the boy time.”

P
lans solidified via text over the weekend. Friday was to be the next meet-up, and another three-way was implied. Clare was beginning to get the distinct impression that a large part of her appeal in Mica’s eyes was the fact that she was up for that, and perhaps also that something about her made the scenario doable for Vaughn.

The week dragged on and on until at last Friday night arrived. She ate a light dinner at home, showered, then changed into her favorite jeans, a new top, and matching green underwear, and headed over to the Hill, feeling charged up and eager and pretty. Feeling like a balloon, buoyant despite the fact that she was settling in all this.

Settling, though. Am I really?

What she’d been settling for all this time was a series of red-hot three-ways with two gorgeous and gifted men. It was tough to complain.

She rang unit C a couple of minutes past eight and held the door handle, waiting for the click and buzz, but instead she got the intercom—that was a first.

“Yeah?”

“Vaughn? It’s Clare.”

“Oh, Clare. Hey. Hang on.”

There was a pause, then the door unlocked.

He sounds surprised
. No shock there—Mica seemed to revel in springing these debauched encounters on his friend. Or perhaps he knew Vaughn would get nervous and find an excuse to make himself scarce if he had warning about what was in store for him. Clare felt a moment’s pang at that as she hiked up the stairs, but it faded fast.
There’s no denying he enjoys what we do.
Beyond the evidence of his orgasms, there was heat in Vaughn’s eyes every time the three of them came together. Fierce and genuine desire behind whatever lingering uncertainty he carried into the bedroom with him.

He met her at the door holding a sports drink bottle. A hand towel was slung around his neck and there were tiny water droplets in his hair.

“You smell very manly,” she teased as she shut the door behind her.

“Oh, thanks. I just shaved.”

She’d brought wine, and she pulled the bottle from its paper bag and went to put it in the fridge. A glance down the hall showed her that Mica’s door was open, though the room was dark. The smallest rock tumbled into her stomach.

“Is he not home yet?” she asked Vaughn.

He shook his head. “You guys have plans?”

“Yeah, he said eightish—I guess he’s taking liberties with the
ish
.”

“Sounds like Mica.”

“You about to go out?”

“I was thinking about it. But I won’t leave until he gets back.”

“Don’t trust me not to rob you blind?” she asked, smiling, and hung her camera bag on the back of a chair.

He smiled back, but there was something odd about the gesture. Something shy, or maybe even sad. “Not at all. Just seems polite.”

“Polite but unnecessary. Don’t let me keep you. Not if you have someplace to go worth shaving for.” This was her chance at a little two-way action with Mica. She liked Vaughn very much, but she wanted another taste of her first night here, to make sure she hadn’t conflated it in her memories. There had been real intimacy between them, hadn’t there? Even as strangers, they’d connected. With their bodies, and more. She wanted to find that again with Mica, to confirm she hadn’t dreamed it all.

“What are you up to tonight?” she asked Vaughn.

“On Friday nights my dad and a few of his friends meet to watch live blues at this bar over in Bloomfield. I swing by sometimes. He likes that. The old guys all like hearing about whatever’s happened on the job, and I think it makes him proud, that his son’s got all these interesting stories.”

“Of course it would. What does he do? Or is he retired?”

“He works part-time: AC installation and repair in the summer, furnaces in the winter.”

“Got the market cornered, huh? Well, don’t let me keep you. I’m sure Mica’s just late. He doesn’t strike me as Mr. Punctuality.”

Vaughn shook his head. “He’s not, no. And I think he was working until seven. Maybe he had to run an errand after they got the coffee shop closed up.”

“Probably something like that.”

“Still, I don’t mind hanging out till he gets home. My dad’ll be at the bar until midnight, at least—those old guys gossip like a load of high school girls. I’ve got time.”

“Cool.”
And kind. So why am I just a little disappointed?
It didn’t take too much thought to answer that question—she’d wanted to snoop in
Mica’s room before he got home, didn’t she? Her body was practically tugging her in the direction, like some nosy strain of gravity.

“Feel like a drink?” she asked Vaughn.

“Yeah, sure. I’ll get them. You want whatever it is you brought?”

“Please. It should still be cold from the store.”

“Want to hang out in the den?”

She considered it. “Nah, let’s just chill here.” She pulled out a chair at the table. There was an open box of dominoes there and she grabbed a few, constructing a little Stonehenge while Vaughn filled their glasses.

“How’s your show coming along?” he asked.

“It’s official—I know that much. I still need to find, like, ten more models by the end of the summer, which is crazy, but the slot’s mine and I can hustle. I mean, I’ll have to. It’s the biggest break I’ve ever gotten. No way I’m wasting it.”

“That’s amazing. Congratulations.”

“I don’t know about
amazing
, but thank you.”

The dominoes were dark wood with white pips, their container a tattered cigar box. Everything about them screamed 1970. “These are ancient,” she said when he sat down with his whiskey and her wine in hand.

“They’re my dad’s. I borrowed them for a game night at a friend’s place last week. I thought I’d return them tonight.”

“It’s a miracle it’s still a full set.”

“I know, but that’s my old man for you. He always told me, ‘We might not have a lot, but what we do have, we take care of.’”

“Did you take that to heart?”

He nodded. “I did. I still do.”

“Were you one of those kids who’d go ballistic if someone stepped on your new sneakers?”

“Minus the ballistic part, yeah. Totally. And one year for Christmas my grandmother got me the number one thing on my list—a Steelers jacket. One of those puffy-ass winter deals, all satin and shit, black with gold sleeves.”

“Rowr.”

“Dude, it was the
shit.
” His face was aglow with bygone pride. “I can’t remember which year it was, but it was a real nasty, nasty winter, and it felt like it snowed every damn day. But I wouldn’t wear that jacket out if it was raining or snowing, because I didn’t want to ruin it. I bet I only got to wear it ten times before it was too warm again, and then the next year, well, it was last year’s model, you know?”

“So you didn’t pick up all the chicks you’d envisioned?”

He laughed. “Hell no. When it snowed I wore my ratty old coat from the year before, looked all scrubby. I swear to God I spent more time wearing the new one in front of my mirror in my bedroom than I ever did at school.”

“Bummer. You still have it?”

He nodded, his sheepish smile telling her he felt like a doofus about it. “Yeah, I do. Mainly because my grandma died the next summer, so it’s kinda sentimental. But yeah. You want to see?”

“Obviously.”

He sipped his neglected whiskey and got up, disappearing down the hall for a minute. He returned sporting the garment in question.

“Wow, very nineties! But it still fits,” she marveled.

“Well, only because the style then was to wear everything two sizes too big like a gangbanger. What do you think?” He turned around, showing her the back—shiny black satin with
STEELERS
in gold across the shoulders.

“Very nice. And it looks like you’ve never even worn it.”

“That’s practically true.”

“Well, I’d have gone to the Christmas dance with you for sure.”

He shot her a cheesily flirtatious eyebrow over his shoulder. “Oh yeah?”

“Totally. And judging by the vintage we’d have slow danced to Boyz II Men.’”

“‘I’ll Make Love to You,’ naturally.”

She smacked the table, toppling some of her dominoes. “Oh my God, that song. I was about ten when that was a hit. I think I still thought making love was mostly to do with lighting a shitload of candles.”

Vaughn laughed. He draped the jacket over the back of his chair and took a seat.

“Between the song and the coat,” she said, “you’d have been beating the pussy off with a stick.”

“So long as it didn’t snow,” Vaughn said with a smile. He grabbed a fistful of dominoes, doing as she was, using them like building blocks. They chatted about the nineties, about middle school, about Pittsburgh and their parents and peers half-forgotten. It was easy and pleasant, and he made Clare feel charming and clever and welcome, but with every minute that passed, her hopeful mood cooled. She didn’t try texting Mica, and Vaughn didn’t suggest it. Perhaps they both knew but didn’t want to say: If he knew he was running late—or if he cared that he was—he was the one who ought to reach out.

By the time quarter to nine rolled around, Clare was downright glum, now certain she’d been stood up. It wasn’t lost on Vaughn. He set a domino carefully atop the tower they’d been building, cleared his throat. “You, um . . . Are you okay, Clare? You look like you’re more than just disappointed.”

She sighed, gathering her curls into a pompom, then letting
them spring free. “I dunno. I seriously have no idea anymore.” She sat back, sucking and releasing a long, slow, lamenting breath.

“About?”

“Him,” she said, flapping her arms in defeat. They both knew he wasn’t coming. No point pretending. “About me and him.”

Vaughn raised his brows, inviting her to go on.

“It’s like, when I’m with him—actually
with
him, in bed, or messing around beforehand . . . Nobody’s ever made me feel so much like the center of the universe, you know? Just totally spoiled, totally like his focus is entirely on me. Like I’m the most alluring woman in the world. Then I go from that to this. I go from feeling like I’m absolutely fascinating to nonexistent the second he drifts into another room.”

“I hear you.”

“But I also feel like, I know all that. I know this is how he is. I knew it before we even slept together, from the way I was waiting around for his call so I could photograph him. Totally at his mercy before I even knew I stood a chance at sleeping with him. I sure as hell knew it that morning after we first hooked up, when he just left me in his bed. It’s not a surprise, like,
at all.
But the way he can make you feel when it’s just the two of you, or the three of us. When it’s about the sex . . . Shit, why is it so fucking hard to keep it straight? Why does it feel so real, every single time?”

“I don’t know, but that’s how it is. He knows exactly how to make people want him—by wanting them at, like, a million volts. And he
does
want you, and wants you to want him. Except there’s a threshold, and the second you want him to a point of needing more than he can give . . .” Vaughn made a motion with his hands, a snap of two fingers as another pair clipped some invisible tether. “The second he senses that demands are coming, he’s out of there.”

She groaned, scrubbed her face with her palms.

He laughed. “It’s fucking aggravating. Trust me, I know.”

“It’s worth it, though—that’s the crazy thing. Being disappointed tonight isn’t going to stop me from running over here the next time he texts.” She drummed her wineglass with her nails. “It’s not even like I haven’t tried to date guys who’re like that. But they didn’t have that, like, sex voodoo, the way he does, you know? The second I sensed I was with some flaky dude who wasn’t going to offer what I was after, I was done. Maybe bummed out, but over it almost immediately. But with Mica . . . I dunno, it just feels so good, the way he wants you.”

“I know. I mean, I’m straight. Not bi—not with anybody but him, not even curious. Never was. If anybody knows how strong that fucking sex voodoo is, it’s me.”

“Christ, how do you handle it, though? I don’t think I can do it anymore. If it wasn’t all doomed to end when he heads back to LA anyway, I might need to just go cold turkey. I couldn’t take the whiplash in the long term, the hot and cold. I mean, thank God he’s leaving. That’s given me permission to jump whenever he tells me to, because I want whatever he’s offering for as long as I can get it, knowing it can’t last.”

“I hear you . . . I think I can handle it because, whenever we’ve messed around, the next day I’m almost always a frigging wreck. Like, identity-crisis-level wreck.”

“Sure.”

Vaughn opened his mouth, closed it. He was chewing on something, she could see it. After a long pause she prompted, “Was there more to that thought?”

“Loads more, but you probably don’t want to hear about it. Not if you’re working through your own shit with him.”

“It might make me feel like less of a fool.”

“Or me like a huge one. I’ve never talked to anybody about this stuff before.”

“Try me.”

“Well . . . With him,” Vaughn said heavily, “I’m the one who keeps us at arm’s length, sexually. I’m the one who gets spooked, because I seriously don’t know what to do with that aspect of my life. What to make of it.”